


It's All In The Stars

by hateful_donuts



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hospitalization, M/M, Multi, Painkillers, Peter Needs a Hug, Power Bottom Peter, Romance, Somewhat, Soulmates, so does wade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7197146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hateful_donuts/pseuds/hateful_donuts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Peter could feel was a sense of numbness. His soulmate was either dead, or messing with him in the cruelest way. He was used to losing people; but waking up, and wondering what shape his mark would take that day, was making him question himself in the worst way possible.</p><p>(It should just be a name.)</p><p>Wade wonders if his soulmate hates him. It's unnecessary; he hates himself enough for the both of them. </p><p>He feels like hating everyone. Except maybe Spiderman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Slave To Fate

From the moment Peter Parker’s mark had appeared on the crook of his arm, he had been disenchanted with the whole concept of soul bonds. The notion that fate got to choose who you would spend the rest of your life with made him feel ridiculously anxious, and also quite indignant.

 

The thought that he could end up getting stuck with someone he didn’t love- didn’t want to be with- settled around his mind like a blanket. _He_ wanted to be the one to choose who he ended up loving; who he spent the rest of his life having to put up with.

 

They called him a control freak.

 

-

 

(In the back of his mind, he wondered: didn’t he know himself better than anyone else? Wasn’t _he_ the first and foremost expert on being _Peter Benjamin Parker_? If so, what gave _fate_ the right to determine what was best for him?)

 

-

 

If you were over a certain age when you got your mark, they’d call you a late bloomer. If you never got your mark, they’d call you _cursed_. Only a lucky few fulfilled their soul bond; but somehow, although the chances of _actually meeting_ your bonded were so low, it was still an expectation.

 

He was seven when his mark appeared. Not particularly young, but not particularly old either. Some girls and boys already had their marks; they either showed them off, or hid them away. In the opinion of society, sharing your mark was infantile. Unless you had met your soulmate, advertising it was something to be ashamed of; something embarrassing that only little children did.

 

Peter agreed wholeheartedly.

 

The late bloomers would smile ( _falsely_ ) at whoever boasted about their mark—make odd faces that were a peculiar mix of jealousy- _or was it hatred_?- and admiration. Peter kept his hidden behind long sleeves, and careful lies.

 

‘ _Of course I haven’t gotten mine yet!_ ’

 

-

 

Peter had awoken to a burning on his arm, when it had happened. He wasn’t shocked, or even scared, like most people said they were. He knew exactly what was happening, and he didn’t like it _one bit_. A pattern that looked like smears of ink were slowly blossoming on his skin, spanning over the entire crook of his arm; the tail ends reached his elbow.

 

The name of his soulmate, his bonded, his supposed ‘destiny’ was long winded and crammed with W’s.

 

_Wade Winston Wilson._

 

-

 

His uncle had taken the _male_ name in a stride, congratulating him warmly with a large smile spanning his face. His aunt had also congratulated him warmly, but when his uncle was gone, she had knelt before him, and spoken with an urgent tone to her voice.

 

“Remember Peter, you are no slave to fate. You must do what you feel is best.”

 

Peter knew that. He had known that for quite some time.

 

-

 

Aunt May and Uncle Ben weren’t soulmates. They loved each other like they were bonded, regardless.

 

-

 

Soul bonds were a messier business than the movies made them seem. Often times, a mark would appear, only to dissolve into spirals of formless ink only moments later. These were the people whose soulmates had been lost to the sands of time.

 

The movies never showed these people, of course. All they showed were happy romances, with living, breathing people.

 

The closest they had gotten yet was a tale of a man who traveled through time, into to the past, just to meet his bonded.

 

No matter how much he disliked the entire concept of soulmates, Peter still hoped. He hoped that one day, he would find someone named ‘Wade’, one who had _his_ name, too.

 

The fact that his soulmate was a boy was a secret that Peter guarded jealously.

 

(Soulbond or not, in the eyes of society, a man loving another man was _unnatural_.)

 

-

 

There were some in the world who had it worse off than those born with a dead soulmate. For example, those without marks were shunned brutally by society, called names, and seen as _unlovable._

 

( _Nothing, however, could compare to the pain of_ losing _a soulmate. Of being in blissful happiness, only to watch in despair as the name of the one you held closest drips away.)_

 

-

 

Peter hates how much he focuses on his soulbond.

 

He is successful in school ( _Genius-prodigy- so_ cold _, though),_ He has a loving family (he doesn’t think of his parents, he _doesn’t_ ), and he has a crush. An unbearable bearable flutter in his chest.

 

Gwen Stacy.

 

Not a boy, not _Wade_.

 

He has all of this; yet every time he meets someone with the name on his arm, he stops short.

 

-

 

Peter meets four Wade’s before he meets _his Wade._

 

(He can’t help but curse fate. Wade isn’t a particularly common name, but he keeps meeting people with it; each time, he grows more weary of soulmates. Each time, the need to meet _his_ Wade strengthens.)

 

The first Wade is his fourth grade teacher, who didn’t share his first name until the end of the year. His last name doesn’t match, and Peter is thankful his soulmate isn’t the grouchy old man.

 

The second Wade is a boy two years ahead of him. His last name also doesn’t match— this is the first time Peter is disappointed.

 

The third is a cashier, who wears the name “ _Marianna Lisa Wheeler_ ” on his arm like a badge.

 

Not Peter Parker. Never him.

 

-

 

The fourth, Peter doesn’t really _meet_ at all. It was a cold day when he saw the fourth and final Wade, and he had been twelve years old.

 

His aunt had been driving him somewhere, and Peter had had his hand stuck out of the window, feeling the frosty air coast over it.

 

They were crossing a bridge, stuck in traffic, when it had happened.

 

He had heard a woman shout ‘Wade!’, and he had looked over in shock. His eyes had met with those of a brown haired man, standing on the railing of the bridge. He had smiled widely at Peter, and jumped.

 

-

 

The fourth Wade hadn’t had a mark at all.

 

Peter had been left with nightmares.

 

-

 

Uncle Ben was dead, and he was Spiderman.

 

( _Menace, hero, vigilante_.)

 

He still remembered his uncle’s death. It still flashed across his eyes when he blinked; The blood, his tears. His sense of hopelessness. The smell of gunpowder had settled around them, and the cold had sunk into his bones.

 

The scene wouldn’t go away, haunted him.

 

Being Spiderman helped. He felt that, with every criminal he sent to jail, he grew closer and closer to redemption.

 

(Because it was _his_ fault.)

 

 _Gwen_ helped. Lovely, kind Gwen, his crush, a girl he couldn’t be with. She tried oh so hard to convince him that Ben’s death wasn’t his fault.

 

He never really believed her.

 

Gwen Stacy, his best friend, whose mark was in an unreadable language.

 

“It’s Cyrillic; Russian,” she had told him one day.

 

She never really paid attention to it. Was always down to earth, in her words, never fantasizing about a prince charming. She was there through thick and thin. She seemed eternal, invincible. He should have known better than to think of her as immortal.

 

Because she was _gone_.

 

-

 

His dreamed of something odd, that night.

 

He dreamed of a strange bridge, twisted and red, surrounded by fog. There were dips and turns, ladders and railroad tracks; all spinning into a mass of steel and paint. A man rose out of hospital bed at one end, and handed him a sharpened pole. It was hot, and glowing.

 

‘you’ll need it.’

 

Then, he was climbing, and gravity didn’t apply there. He was at the top of the bridge, and the sky above him morphed into a river.

 

The brown haired man named Wade was floating on the surface. Gwen was falling into the sky beneath him, Uncle Ben was at his feet, bleeding, and the mark on his arm said:

 

‘Are you afraid?’

 

-

 

He woke up in a cold sweat, eyes drawn instantly to his mark. It still said the same name, same familiar words, in the same neat, blocky letters. His room felt stifling and sweaty, humidity clogging the air. He stood up, making his way down the hallway into his kitchen for some water.

 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he reached blindly into a cabinet for a glass. His hands were slippery, still heavy and clumsy from sleep, and it fell from his hands, shattering on the floor. He cursed, and reached down to grab the shards. His eyes once again fell on his arm.

 

His mark, his name, his soulbond, had started to swirl; it ran down his arm in rivulets.

 

His heart plummeted, and he couldn’t breath. Tears welled up in his eyes.

 

-

 

Peter Benjamin Parker was eighteen when he lost his soulmate.

 

-


	2. Always Be With You

Wade’s memory was patchy at best. On the best of days, he could remember his life before becoming Deadpool. He could remember the people around him, the faces of loved ones. On the worst of days-.

 

-

 

Wade Wilson had always _liked_ the idea of soulmates. He liked the idea that there was someone out there, waiting for him, able to _love_ him the way his dad never did. Someone who would unconditionally accept him for who he was.

 

_A person who wouldn’t toss him around a little “Just to relieve stress”._

 

( _No hard feelings, eh son? Fuck, don’t look at me like that. Just like your mother!)_

 

Wade’s entire existence was bruised ribs and bruised pride; he kept his mouth shut when his head slammed against the wall just to spite the bastard.

 

At that point, he didn’t even give a damn if his soulmate was pretty— or even a good person.  He just wanted an easy way out of this hellhole.

 

He mercilessly pushed back the feeling of guilt at that thought; the feeling that he was the type of scumbag who would use his soulmate to his own advantage.

 

_Like his lowlife of a father._

 

-

 

Wade tried not to feel sinking despair when, by his ninth birthday, he still hadn’t gotten his mark.

 

-

 

He was more than a late bloomer. He was fucking _markless_. That was the only explanation for not having his mark yet— _at eleven years old_.

 

To make matters worse ( _What was worse than not having a soulmate? Not having his long coveted easy way out?)_ everyone _knew._

 

Teachers stared down their noses at him. Kids tried to pick on him. They’d single him out in the courtyard while he was eating lunch and try to beat him up; they never got far.

 

His dad would stare blankly at his nameless arm, and then he’d scoff. Look at Wade like he was less than human.

 

He bitterly, _bitterly_ resented the fact that his father had him beat in even _one_ area of life.

 

-

 

His mom and his dad were soulmates. The most romanticized, prestigious role that a pair of lower class lovers from the slums could hope to attain.

 

Wade only had a few memories of his mom, but, he was certain of one thing. His dad didn’t deserve her; _never_ deserved her.

 

(If there _was_ a god, they seemed to agree. Wade’s mother never lived to see his fourth birthday.)

 

-

 

His sharpest, clearest memory of her, was being held close and listening to the soothing sound of her voice.

 

He could practically smell her perfume, hear the vibrations in her chest as she spoke.

 

“Wade. I love you so much, always remember that. I wont always be here with you, but you have to be strong. Be brave, and remember, I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

 

(He could practically smell the hospital, hear the beep of the heart monitor as she slowly and painfully _died_.

 

He could practically feel the sensation of her bony hand shaking as she sobbed and held him close like a lifeline.)

 

-

 

Her words helped him through the worst of his days. When he arrived home, covered in the blood of a million dollar target, he remembered; at least his mom would always love him.

 

-

 

He was twelve when his mark finally emerged on his arm. He couldn’t remember a happier moment in the last eight years.

 

It was short lived, though.

 

_Peter Benjamin Parker._

 

The name on his arm belonged to a man, a boy, a male. His dad laughed first, and then grew inexplicably angry. He called Wade a faggot, and smashed an empty bottle over his head.

 

Somehow ( _and god damn- how?)_ the little pricks at his school found out too. They laughed and jeered; called him all sorts of names. They even tried to beat him up again.

 

That fight lasted about as long as the others.

 

-

 

His nightmares weren’t _normal_ nightmares. When he was a kid, he never dreamed of monsters under the bed. When he dropped out of high school and joined the special forces, it was never of losing his comrades or dying at the hands of a terrorist.

 

When he inevitably became a mercenary, a new lady on his arm every two months, he didn’t dream of his headcount or the women and children he had killed.

 

Never even about the cancer in his liver, lungs, prostate, and brain.

 

He dreamed of somehow morphing into his bastard of a father; of meeting his soulmate and _hurting them._ He dreamed of fists on soft skin and his many guns against the head of a man smaller than him.

 

The small man sometimes morphed into his mother.

 

-

 

Then, he underwent Weapon XI. His nightmares were finally about himself. About pain, and suffering, and the disgusting welts and scars that appeared on his body. About scaring his soulmate to death instead of beating him.

 

-

 

His hair was gone, his skin lost. To Wade, it was a lot more monumental than just losing his good looks. When he was young, everyone said he was a dead ringer of his mom. His features, his hair, his complexion; everything but his eyes. He always felt insulted whenever someone pointed out the fact that his icy, cold irises _looked just like his dad’s_.

 

With time, his eyes were the only thing anyone ever complimented, concentrated on. Everyone focused on the one feature in his entire body that wasn’t scarred and deformed.

 

His father’s eyes were what everyone venerated above all else in his body.

 

-

 

When Wade died for the first time, a hot metal rod piercing his heart, his thoughts were monopolized by his soulmate. A Man he had never met; a man that now had to know the pain of losing their destined.

 

He felt relieved.

 

His soulmate would feel pain; they would curse fate. But they would move on, and eventually, be happy. Without Wade to get in their way.

 

-

 

He woke up.

 

He cried.

 

-

 

Some years later, Wade met Spiderman for the first time. A fellow masked man. The kid wasn’t at all like he thought he would be. Sure, on the surface, he was _all_ sass and sarcasm. The wall crawler wore that face so often that it was ingrained into his personality.

 

But he had a heavy weight behind him. A sort of quiet intensity in the still moments. Unbearable conviction, and sadness.

 

Dark personality hidden by a motormouth?

 

Wade didn’t know _at all_ what _that_ felt like.

 

Maybe the similarities that Wade had carefully picked and chosen were what drew him closer to Spiderman.

 

 _‘Maybe,’_ one of his boxes responded scornfully, ‘ _You’re lying to yourself.’_

 

-

 

Wade’s memory was patchy at best. On the best of days, he could remember his mother’s words, the vibrations of her chest. On the worst, he puts a gun against his head and pulls the trigger.

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (pulled his trigger now he's dead~ Mamaaaaaa, life had just begun- but now he's gone and thrown it allllll awayyyy; MAMAAAAAA OOOOOOOHHHH~)  
> also i am a literal grandma i cant get the link to my tumblr to work rip im rinkakyun if anyone's curious  
> (didnt meeeean to make you cry~~~~If he's not back again, this time tomorrow~!!)

**Author's Note:**

> WOw so I know EVERYONE does a soulmate au but I couldn't resist!! I hope you enjoyed!! Sorry for any mistakes (this is basically me procrastinating finals) I plan to update soonish, but for now, I leave you all with a cliffhanger ;^)


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